Sangers (and not sangers) - the Oz version

Last year we travelled the west coast of America and I ate a lot of sandwiches. Then I came back and wrote about how much I loved eating sandwiches. This year, after our trip to Australia, I'm doing pretty much the same thing, my love of carbs undiminished. I'm nothing if not consistent.

This is probably also going to serve as a bit of a round-up post, so I can document as much edible stuff as possible before I forget/lose interest. Which means including anything tasty I ate that might (or might not) have a passing resemblance to a sandwich. All while inventing more and more outlandish caveats for it's inclusion; and for that I make no apologies.

The first entry may seem like a Not Sandwich, but actually it was a Sandwich. At least that's how it was described on the feasting menu at Nomad, a contemporary/middle eastern restaurant in a converted warehouse in swanky Surry Hills. In an ideal world I would have the time and patience to write about the whole meal I enjoyed here with the family - we had the feasting menu, and it was all excellent, but in the interests of brevity, and sanity, I will start (and finish) at the end.

On the menu the ice cream sandwich with olive oil parfait, halva crumble, pistachio and honey sounded nice enough, in reality it was pretty bloody amazing. I've just sat staring at the picture for a while, trying to think of superlatives, but for once I'm lost for words.

Smoky, nutty, sweet, creamy, crunchy; you get the general idea. The magical biscuitty stuff that sandwiched the ice cream was particularly good.  After the full meal that proceeded this, we all still hungrily wolfed down two sharing plates, fighting over the scraps. Which probably says it all.

If the dessert at Nomad self-identified as a sandwich, I have no problems naming Black Star Pastry's watermelon and strawberry creation a sandwich too. Although it has been named the world's most instragrammed cake (which kind of flies in the face of my sandwich assertion), I still maintain it should be included for the simple reason it does actually sandwich a layer of fresh watermelon between two layers of pastry cream and sponge. All topped off with dried rose petals and strawberries.

On the face of it, I have to say it sounded all kinds of wrong. Fresh melon abutting fresh dairy was already curdling in my thoughts. Bits of dead flower, looking like something my Nan used to give me for Christmas, strewn on top. Obviously I was very incorrect and the whole thing seemed to balance together beautifully, as well as looking utterly beautiful. Yes, of course I posted a pic for the 'Gram.

People often say surf and turf is overrated; people are wrong. And they certainly haven't tried the chorizo and prawn roll from the Mojo Picon stand at the Entertainment Quarter in Sydney's Moore Park. My sister wanted us to go there just so we could try these, and it just proves good taste runs in the family.

This crispy roll, think Spanish bocadillo, is stuffed with grilled chunks of smoky fresh chorizo and topped with fat prawns, lime and coriander. I also added a healthy squirt of the eponymous mojo picon sauce, garlic, cumin, smoked paprika, chilli and olive oil. This was so generously filled, the Ewing and I managed to share one between us and barely even squabble over who should get the errant prawns that had fallen overboard.

Is a pizza a sandwich? Lets be honest, definitely not (maybe, arguably, a calzone…) But with my sister moving house imminently, it was only right we should have one final pizza from RocketBoy, the pizza place that’s currently about 100m from her door. As you can see, we were certainly in need of some carbs, after a Monday beer crawl around Marrickville had left us in a rather parlous state.

My favourite of their pizzas is the the Malabar, topped with wild Aussie prawns, marinaded in chilli and coconut, plus chorizo, onion, parsley and lemon. Seafood is not normally my first choice on a pie (although who doesn’t love tinned tuna and red onion on deep pan after a night on the town) but it seems a rather apt choice when in Oz; well, in the absence of a Barbie to chuck the prawns on, anyway. 

It’s very good pizza, if perhaps not gold tier, but for a takeaway pizza it’s pretty decent, generously topped and fair value. Plus it’s proximity is a bonus. Although it seems my sister's new gaff also has a branch of Rocketboy around the corner (obviously one of the first things I checked). I’m going to overlook the fact everyone else ganged up on me and made me watch the Bachelor in Paradise when eating it. Although, even that couldn’t put me off.

Mr Crackles, on Oxford Street, Sydney’s main gay drag, has become a must visit on our trips to Oz, although I’ve still yet to visit while inebriated (draconian lock out laws currently prohibit most late night drinking in the surrounding area, but you can still get your pork fix until 4.30 in the morning on Friday and Saturday. Oh, and Mr Crackles is open too…).

They are best known for the ‘Classic Crackles’, a crispy baguette/ciabatta-ish hybrid with five spice roast pork belly, mayo and a Vietnamese salad. Which is what I always order, and this time was no different. Along with an extra cup of crackling, which we took to my sister as a reward for getting through a morning's shopping expedition with the kids in tow.

We also also tried the crackles salad, which is the same but no bread and more green stuff. It’s a majestic sandwich; crunchy and salty and fatty and enormously messy to eat while hovering over the high benches than run up both sides of the shop. Part of its joyous, unbridled, delicious appeal.

While it remained as delicious as ever I might have, wait for it, actually preferred the salad. It’s certainly easier to eat. The crusty bread, as good as it is (and it is good), can’t help but detract from the perfection of the wobbly chunks of pork belly and crisp crackling. While the bread may be dispensable, the one thing I think it does miss is a hit of chilli sauce. A little bit of zing would help cut through the richness nicely.

For the Ewing's birthday I took her on an all-dayer that ended up with dinner at Saint Peter (blog post to come) but started with an unexpectedly excellent lunch and drinks at the CBD branch of Continental Deli.

Known for their deli meats and cheeses and cocktails in a can, we both started with a Mar-tinny, which came with 3 green olives, plus an extra gilda (olive green chilli and anchovy on a stick) each, for good measure. An excellent start to proceedings.

As well as some outstanding Aussie washed rind cheese with rhubarb chutney, tiny little bitter olives and crackers, and a plate of wafer thin mortadella with picked chillies and cornichons we also had a genuine, legit sandwich in the form of their meatball sub.

This was a behemoth of crisp ciabatta bread, stuffed with a trio of giant balls, cooked in a tomato sauce and finished with a smattering of freshly grated Parmesan. Plus crisps, plus more pickles. This was a fine sandwich, although I felt the ethereal texture of the meatballs and the pillowy bread became a little samey. A situation that improved with the addition of some of the crisps to the sarnie.

Obviously there has to be a burger somewhere (definitely a sandwich), and this time we schlepped all the way over the Harbour Bridge to North Sydney to find it. Which also provided the perfect opportunity for a sun-kissed selfie or two.

Our destination was Five Points - only open for limited hours, Monday to Friday and offering a limited menu of five burgers, named after the five boroughs of New York, plus three milkshakes, and sides of chips and a green salad.

To be honest, when your burgers are this good there's not much else that you need. I chose the Bronx - a grilled beef patty, double cheese, bacon, onion jam, tomato sauce, pickles, american mustard, aioli and iceberg; and it was one of the best burgers I have had for a long time. Chips (a bit chunkier than fries, but still suitably thin enough to go alongside a burger) were also excellent, although the Ewing found her salted caramel shake a bit too thin and too sweet (even for her).

The lamington - a sponge cake dipped in a thin chocolate icing and rolled in coconut, often sandwiched with jam or cream - is a stone cold Aussie classic. It's also one of my favourite cakes and I had heard the best ones in town were to be found at Flour and Stone in Woolloomooloo.

The intel was right as this lamington was utterly outstanding. The Flour and Stone version is dipped in panna cotta (combating the potential dryness of the sponge and coconut, the greatest enemy of the lammo) before being filled with berry compote and rolled in dark chocolate and coconut flakes. The whole thing feels heavy in your hand but ethereally light as you eat it. Made even better if consumed to a back drop of sunny Woolloomooloo Harbour.

Another must visit since my brother-in-law took us on our last trip to Sydney is Marrickville Pork Roll; a tiny shop front in the Inner-West, with an almost constant queue outside, from where they deftly turn out what seems like an endless stream of what have been called the best pork rolls in town.

Essentially an analgised name for the banh mi, the pork roll is a Vietnamese sandwich that originated in the south of the country after baguettes were introduced in the mid-19 century by the French. Traditionally made with rice flour, which makes them even lighter and crisper, they are then stuffed with an array of ingredients that normally comprised of one or more meats (classically pork belly, pork sausage and pate), mayonnaise and salad including cucumber slices, coriander, pickled carrots and radish, and chillies.

While Marrickville is a little far flung from Central Sydney to come for a sandwich (they have an outpost in Steam Mill Lane now, and while I haven’t visited, I’m not sure I could be disloyal to the original), it makes the perfect stop on our (second) inner-west beer crawl.

One of my absolute favourite things to do when I’m in town. Certainly my favourite thing to do for six bucks. This time I think I enjoyed it even more than before; the airy baguette ably holding a full cargo of meat and veg plus a slathering of mayo and chopped chilli. This is truly one of my very favourite sandwiches I have eaten; and I’ve eaten a lot of sandwiches.

Get that bread

Writing a blog (or certainly this blog) is about 45 per cent trying to avoid the most obvious cliches, 45 per cent repeating yourself and ten per cent actually writing original, witty content. I appreciate the latter figure could be seen to be a little generous.

One of my least favourite cliches - and also one I probably repeat the most - is the classic; 'has been on  my radar for a while'. While it is often invariably true - there will always be an, ever-expanding, list of places I want to visit at any given moment - it is also more hackneyed than a taxi rank at kicking out time. Still better than some of my metaphors, though. 

In the case of this post, however, it seems entirely appropriate. In fact not only had it been on my list for a while, it was also one of the only places the Ewing had expressed any interest in going to; mostly after seeing the estimable Max Halley himself appearing on Sunday Brunch, making a fish finger sandwich stuffed with Scampi Fries.

I'm hardly sure I need even say this but, being a Saturday afternoon (and certainly after our cocktail crawl the night before) we were a little worse for wear, although a brisk walk up the Stroud Green Road had helped somewhat. The Ewing plumped for a hair of the dog, although she did show some restraint by picking a Kernel Table Beer at an eminently sensible 3.1 per cent.

I ordered a cuppa - yours for just a quid - and was rewarded with this practically perfect example, hot and strong and in a very appropriate mug. I also ordered a Arnold Palmer, the magnificently named 50/50mix of ice tea and cloudy lemonade that was said to be a favourite of the flamboyant golfer. It's one of my favourites, too, and unexpectedly exciting to see it on a menu this side of the pond.

Tom's Amazing Wings - soy and vinegar chicken wings fried in Smash, guindilla yogurt, lime pickled onions and spring onions - lived up to their name. The potato flake coating was revelatory, as was the addition of pickled chillies with the yogurt. Double onions provided tang and crunch.

Brown paper packages, tied up with string, these are a few of my favourite things. Well, a slightly less exciting elastic band, if I'm being pedantic, but still an exciting parcel of squishy carbohydrates and promise.

I chose the Et tu, Brute? Murdering the Caesar', their riff on the classic salad featuring confit guinea fowl, pickled grape and tarragon salsa, baby gem, parsley, garlic croutons and anchovy mayo. 

Let's just take a moment to look at it, a hulking beast comprising of warm, pillowy foccacia, stuffed to the gunwales with all sorts of exciting things that spill out as you unwrap the waxed paper bundle.

This was everything I love between two pillowy slices of excellent bread. Soft sticky strands of guinea fowl, sweet and sour salsa and salty anchovy, all offset with the crunch of bitter leaves. I would go as far to say it rivalled my Mum's Boxing Day turkey sarnie; the highest praise indeed. 

If there was one, minor, quibble was that the tiny croutons made the whole thing pretty rich, a situation that probably wasn't helped by my delicate constitution. I could also have done with a metric tonne more of the glorious mayo, but I'm just greedy.

The Ewing chose their signature sarnie, the Ham, Egg 'n' Chips filled with slow-cooked shredded ham hocks, piccalilli, a fried egg, shoestring fries and malt vinegar mayo. If the anchovy mayo was great, this could have been even better, mixing two of my all-time favourite condiments that gave the creamy spread an extra tangy punch.

As you can see, the Ewing was utterly in her element, giddy on carbs and the fact she had finally made the pilgrimage to try what is, possibly, London's most famous (certainly one of the best) sandwich.  I was glad that we could tick another one off the list, and squeeze in another cliche to boot. 

Stick it between some bread and call it a sandwich

I used to work with a woman who would, every day like clockwork, forlornly pull her lunch out of her bag, sigh loudly while exclaiming 'aren't sandwiches boring', and then ruefully start to munch on her homemade sarnie. 

Firstly, I never quite understood why she didn't just make herself something else; secondly, who could possible hate on the sandwich? I'd spend the whole morning clock-watching until I could unwrap mine. It's still feel the same.

I eat a lot of food, and the food I eat the most is the humble 'something between two slices of bread'*. On average I've eaten 6 a week (one a day at work and a bacon sarnie on a Sunday), since early childhood. Which, by my primitive calculations makes approx ten thousand of the things (wow, imagine that - TE).

I never get bored, even on holiday, and as a testament to my love I dragged the Ewing around some of the best on the West coast, starting with the Godmother at the Bay Cities Deli. The most famous woman in Santa Monica.

*rolls, baguettes and bagels all welcome

Boars Head genoa salami, prosciutto, mortadella, coppacola, ham and provolone cheese are layered up on crisp Italian bread with a perfectly blistered crust before being given "the works": mayo, mustard, Italian dressing, onions, pickles, tomatoes, lettuce, and chopped peppers. You can chose hot or mild, but there's really only one answer to that question; spice all the way.

It's always gonna be a pretty incredible sandwich, wherever you eat it, be it sitting on Santa Monica beach, fending off the seagulls and surreptitiously sipping a cream soda ale at 11 o'clock in the morning takes some beating (yeah baby - TE).

When it comes to iconic LA foods, there is little to beat the french dip sandwich and there is no where more iconic to try one than at Phillippe's, the "Home of the Original French Dip Sandwich". Established in 1908, it doesn't seem like much has changed, from the sawdust on the floors, to the 'carvers' who serve you at the counter, to the row of coin-operated phone booths by the door, this is a slice of the City of Angels set in aspic.

For their signature sandwich a crusty french roll is stuffed with beef (or lamb, turkey or pork) before being dunked in the hot roasting juices - chose single-dip, double-dip, or wet. A slice of cheese is optional, the special famous hot mustard on each table, is pretty much mandatory.

While the Ewing was reluctant to go for a sandwich (primarily because we had literally just eaten taquitos and tamales at Ceilto Lindo, across the street), I lured her in with the prospect of a beer; a schooner of Booming Rollers from San Diego-based Modern Times (I am such a push over - TE).

Even if the sandwich was a duff, it would have been worth it for the booze, with both of us agreeing it was possibly the best beer of the whole trip. And there were a few beers. Of course the french dip was excellent, with the Ewing bravely eating half of my roast beef and cheddar roll, although I had to eat the whole portion of macaroni salad to myself. Hardly a hardship, as I still think of it's mayo and pickle-spiked perfection even now.

If the Ewing thought we were done for the day after our french dip, she hadn't counted on the Dodger Dog at the Dodger Stadium, our next stop. While it might be a stretch to include this as a sandwich, it is meat (of a questionable providence, but animal-derived no less) between bread, so it's in.

Described as a 10 inch pork wiener - I added a couple of inches with the extra large - wrapped in a steamed bun and served either steamed or grilled. The grilled Dogs are considered the "classic" version. with more dogs sold here than at any other Major League ballpark.

I'm not completely sure what type I had, although it seemed a bit scorched, so I'm going with the latter. Was it a good dog? If spongy mechanically recovered meat clamped in soggy bread and smothered in sweet, vinegary mustard and ketchup, then yes. Was it a good experience? Absolutely, even if we left at the top of the 8th inning, with the Dodgers 3 -1 down, only to miss two homers. At least we heard the triumphant cheers as we walked back to Union Station. 

I couldn't possible write about a trip to California and not include at least one mention of In-n-Out, the burger chain established in 1958 that inspires a cult-like devotion. Known for it's secret menu, fair treatment of staff and resistance to franchising it's operations, it also makes a pretty decent burger.

If it was a stretch to include a Dodger Dog, its even more so to include a burger that eschews bread and is instead wrapped in a lettuce leaf, but this is Cali and this is a Double Double (two meat and two cheese) protein style. If the salad is still too carbalicious, you can order the flying dutchman, two slices of cheese melted between two burger patties. 

Of course, they also offer buns, and good thick shakes - above is the off-menu neapolitan, combining chocolate, vanilla and strawberry - and not very good fries that are marginally improved by being ordered animal style - covered in melted cheese, 'spread' (read thousand island) and grilled onions. Make sure they also chuck in some chilli peppers, but be careful; they are hotter than they look.

If burgers and hot dogs are in, then barbecue with parker rolls also qualifies (YEAH! we had such an amazing time on this trip - TE). While we were not strictly in 'cue country, most of the smoked meats in this corner of the country would still run smoke rings around anything you can find back here.

Case in point being Fox Smokehouse BBQ, our last stop on our drive to Vegas. An anonymous looking building in a strip mall in Boulder City, identifiable only by the smoker on the sidewalk outside and a small flashing neon sign in the window.

Inside smelt like the contents of my holdall after a week sitting around a bonfire at Reading Festival as a teenager. Not great for my Mum doing my washing, but a pretty enticing smell when you know it's the scent of slow-cooked ribs and brisket.

As predicted on arrival, the food was exceptional. Excellent deep fried nuggets of crispy okra with ranch dressing; barbecue pit beans; gooey mac and cheese; crunchy vinegar slaw and cold glasses of PBR for only just one buck. And of course the meat - tender ribs, with a proud, pink smoke ring and just the right amount of resistance when trying to prise them from the bone, and slices of soft and fatty brisket with it's crisp outer bark. Best of all were the pillowy rolls, perfect for DIY beef sandwiches. How can that ever be boring?

Moo and Modernism too

I usually find family occasions fraught with difficulty. Not, as you may think, because I don't like my my relatives - in fact, quite the contrary, I love spending time with them - but more the difficulty in finding things that are going to please everyone, with ages ranging from six months to sixty something, especially when it comes to eating. 

A case in point came recently when I found everyone would be descending on East London for a mini reunion. My first thoughts, after the excitement of seeing everyone, of course - turned to Tayyabs lamb chops, Beigel bake's hand carved salt beef and Orange Buffalo's spicy wings. Well, at least until I heard my cousin - a former globetrotter who now has two young children under five - suggesting to my aunt 'chain restaurants are good, all children like chips'.

 

He's right of course, chains can be great and there's plenty of examples where I'd be more than happy to eat fried potatoes with the young ones (sadly not me anymore). So when my aunt sent me the details to our reservation at Moo Cantina - a mini chain with a branch on Brick Lane and a meat-centric menu - for our family lunch, the steaks were high (boom, boom).

Things got off to a good start with a large bottle of Quilmes, a popular (a pretty much the only) Argentinian beer. As with a few weeks ago, when I was chugging cans of PBR along side my fried chicken, it's  sweet, malty beer that doesn't have much going for it on its own, but when served cold slips down deceptively well alongside grilled meats and salty foods.

The sharing starter board, given an atmospherically fuzzy glow through my grease-speckled camera phone lens - was a tasty and interesting assortment of Argentinian chorizo sausage with roasted peppers and onion, lightly battered fingers of fried squid with garlicky mayo, hunks of baguette with a punchy chimichurri sauce and disc that resembled a pancake, but was comprised of gooey, grilled provolone cheese.

It was nice to see chancho, a hunk of grilled pork collar, on the menu, and it didn't disappoint. Served simply with a sauce criolla - a fresh onion, pepper and tomato salsa - a rocket salad, and a side of excellent sweet potato fries, and all with change from a tenner.

We also sampled couple of incarnations of the eponymous 'free range beef sourced from lush grass fed cattle'. Firstly a flank steak - 200g, grilled and served with a salad and fries for £12 at lunchtime, which proved a well-flavoured strip of meat, served with charred edges and a nicely pink centre. There was also the Lomito Porteno a rib eye sandwich with roasted peppers and provolone cheese advertised on the menu as 'one of the top ten sandwiches in the UK'. While I'm not sure who made the pronouncement, I'm pretty sure my cousin Will was in agreement.

While tempted by the smoke sausage platter, served with the curious addition of guacamole, in the end the Ewing attempted to compensate from the previous night's excess with the 'seasonal' salad. Thankfully chunks of avocado meant she didn't miss out on her vitamin E, alongside flame grilled peppers and fresh peppers, and crisp chicken strips, all nestled on a bed of well-dressed leaves (insert joke about East London fashion here). 

The younger contingent were also well catered for with a very good grilled chicken sandwich, stuffed with mozzarella and tomato; Moo burgers and chips; and a big platter of nachos to share. We also shared some interesting sides including the Salad Olivier, a kind of ensalada russa of diced boiled potato, carrot and peas, dressed with mayo; and a Revuelto Gramajo, a dish of scrambled eggs with 'onion, ham, peas and fries'.

Who could resist the lure of a desert named Sweet Tony, a toffee and chocolate mousse with cream and strawberries. Certainly not the Ewing, who enjoyed it, although not as much as my Uncle enjoyed his carajillo (coffee with cognac, or in his case, amaretto) the beloved beverage of Spanish bin men, served here in wine glasses and a steal at only four pounds.

From being somewhere central, where we could all get together and eat chips and drink wine, Moo ended up exceeding all our expectations. While the food was decent, and decently priced, where they really impressed was with the charming service. From stowing our assorted luggage, to re-configuring the furniture, to expertly dividing sandwiches to stop pre-teenage squabbles, and being delightful with baby Louis, nothing was too much trouble.

While the rest of the family rolled, contentedly, back towards Stoke Newington, we took the opportunity to chalk off stop three of the Brutal Tour with a visit to One Moorgate Place, home of Institute of Chartered Accountants' Hall. More accurately we where here to see William Whitfield's 60's extension, constructed in a Modernist style that's quite at odds with the Victorian neo-Baroque styling of the original building.

When I was growing up our neighbours, who lived directly opposite, decided to paint the front of their garage with large colourful blocks that resembled a Mondrian painting. Which might have looked pretty incongruous on a warehouse door in backstreet in Whitechapel, but rather less so when attached to a house in leafy Buckinghamshire.

While I’m not sure their impressionist recreation was quite to my parent’s more modest (not modernist) tastes, I was rather a fan of the bold colours that brightened up my dreary provincial view; which is exactly how I felt when I saw the Brutalist extension to the Hall. The incongruousness of the addition is, for me, the epitome of what makes the juxtaposition of London’s architecture – this time as part of the very same building - so thrilling. 

You can read more about the whole building here. I'm just waiting for the currant refurbishment works to take place so I can go for lunch at One Moorgate Place, the restaurant found in the basement of the hall. I wonder if they serve chips...